


To Unite or Bind

by blehgah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, Dungeons and Dragons, Holidays, M/M, Non Idol AU, THIS IS LATE BUT WHATEVER, Youtuber AU, basically the boys are just regular dudes who live in canada, loosely, the whole group shows up but the main characters are the ones involved with the ships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-21 23:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blehgah/pseuds/blehgah
Summary: The boys all loosely know each other through a friend of a friend of a friend. Christmas time is a magical time, and it just might help love flourish.





	1. Chapter 1

Chan still isn’t used to the new studio yet; it’s on the eastern side of the city, which means it’s easier to get to Toronto from here, but it’s farther from the downtown core than the last studio was.

What’s also weird is that it’s in the basement of a bilingualism centre—there are always people in suits hustling and bustling in the main lobby. He’s currently watching someone struggle with the revolving door that serves as the main entrance and he has to try hard not to laugh when they drop their suitcase as soon as they walk in.

“Hey!”

Chan looks up and finds Soonyoung jogging towards him from the stairs. His brow is covered in sweat, as usual.

He plops down next to Chan in the window sill and bumps their shoulders together.

“Are you getting a ride with Mom?” he asks.

Chan raises the phone in his hands. “About to ask,” he replies. “And please stop calling her “mom” like she’s your mom, too.”

Soonyoung grins. “She loves it when I call her that, though.”

“It’s fucking weird is what it is, dude.”

As Chan rolls his eyes, Soonyoung leans over and drops his chin against Chan’s shoulder. Chan knows Soonyoung’s reading his phone screen, but he’s used to it by now; knowing Soonyoung for as long as he has means he’s used to a lot of the guy’s bullshit. It’s a little concerning how little he cares about how… comfortable (nosy) Soonyoung can be, but at the same time, it’s probably for the best. It’s not worth the effort to get angry.

 

[ **Mom** ]: just finished with work   
[ **Chan** ]: how was your day?   
[ **Mom** ]: eh… i’ll tell you about it when you’re home. Is there something you wanted?

 

One of the best and worst things about texting his mom is how straightforward she is.

 

[ **Chan** ]: I was wondering if i could get a ride to the mall?   
[ **Mom** ]: sure

 

“Hey, sweet,” Soonyoung says.

The typing bubble is still going on his mom’s end, but Chan ignores it as he types up his request to bring Soonyoung with him.

 

[ **Mom** ]: also, your dad’s been asking for ages about the Christmas party with the Cruz family. Are you coming?   
[ **Chan** ]: can Soonyoung come too?

 

“Oh, fuck,” Chan mutters.

Soonyoung starts laughing.

The Cruz Family Christmas Party is an ordeal Chan dreads each year. The Cruz family in the neighbouring townhouse, which means that not only is their place not suited for hosting as many people as they try to cram in there, but also that they’re nosy as fuck about Chan’s personal life. Every year they ask him if he’s got a girlfriend yet, and it took him all of last year to tell them that he’s pretty fucking gay. Bringing anyone to the party, even Soonyoung, would result in a slew of questions he’s hardly interested in answering.

As Chan scrambles to correct his reply, Soonyoung catches his wrist.

“Hey,” he says, “just leave it.”

Chan whips his head around to look at him. Soonyoung backs away from his shoulder just soon enough to avoid their noses from smashing together.

“Why?” Chan screeches. It comes out much louder and higher-pitched than he’s expecting, and Soonyoung starts laughing again. “You know what they’ll say if they see you there. I haven’t brought a date to their parties  _ once _ and suddenly I’m bringing a guy with me?”

Leaning back against the window, Soonyoung pulls a leg up against his chest. His thigh bumps Chan’s, but it’s easy for Chan to ignore the familiar contact with the way Soonyoung is grinning so widely. This isn’t a joke; he sees this family at least twice a month at dinners, and he sees their kids almost every fucking day as they leave for school. But Soonyoung seems to think it’s the fucking funniest thing he’s ever heard.

“You  _ just _ came out to them; wouldn’t it be funny to see them lose their minds over me?” Soonyoung asks.

Chan narrows his eyes. Soonyoung  _ does _ have a point. His phone buzzes with his mom’s reply, and he opts to check on that instead of answering Soonyoung.

 

[ **Mom** ]: sure   
[ **Mom** ]: tell him it’s a black tie affair

 

“It is  _ not _ a black tie affair,” Chan mutters to himself.

“I can pull off a suit pretty well, if you ask me,” is Soonyoung’s input.

“Stage costumes don’t count; if I have to hear them complaining about vacuuming glitter from their carpet, I’m gonna have to kill you. Hey, wait a second.”

No one’s agreed to anything yet—Chan stops speaking so quickly his jaw clicks. Again, he whips his head around to look at Soonyoung, the frustrated fire in his gut growing at the sight of the amused expression shaping Soonyoung’s features.

For a second, he’s quiet, considering. Then, he sighs, deflating.

“I mean, yeah,” Chan replies slowly, “it would be pretty funny to see them lose their shit over me being gay, especially since I didn’t get to relish in it when I first told them, but—”

“Hey, you know what,” Soonyoung interrupts him, “if they take it that badly, they might not ever invite you over ever again.”

Chan opens his mouth and shuts it again. Soonyoung’s grin widens, victorious.

“Dammit,” Chan mutters, turning to his phone again. “I hate when you’re right.”

As Chan begins to type his response, he says, “you know what else is fucking weird? Why didn’t Mom even bat a damn eyelash?”

“You can’t see her eyelashes over text, you know.”

“You know what I mean, asshole.”

Soonyoung shrugs. “Maybe she thinks we’re fucking backstage.”

Chan groans. “That might explain why she’s so okay with you calling her “Mom”.”

“Could be worse, dude.”

“Come on, you were right once already; don’t you think that’s enough?”

 

[ **Chan** ]: we’re at the dance studio   
[ **Chan** ]: remember, it’s closer to the subway, don’t go to the school again by accident   
[ **Mom** ]: of course honey. Your mom’s not senile yet

 

Chan looks over at Soonyoung, who hasn’t dropped that damn grin since he sat down. The burning in his chest refuses to die down, though, despite the logic behind Soonyoung’s little joke. It’s just one night, and it’s not like Chan is gonna parade Soonyoung around like he’s his  _ real _ boyfriend.

Unless…

Soonyoung meet’s Chan’s eyes and his expression softens. Soonyoung knows all about the Cruzes, and he knows all about the hoops Chan has to jump through when it comes to both that family’s and his own family’s heteronormativity. Soonyoung is just trying to look out for him.

Right?

There’s no time to think about it: a group of people in suits comes storming inside, the revolving door spinning like a top as they cast their hurried French in all directions. Soonyoung starts mimicking a particularly nasal accent, and it’s not long before Chan forgets about the situation entirely.

 

* * *

 

Working in customer service is hell. Working while going to school is hell, too. But at least he gets tips and gets to put on his spoitfy playlist in the shop once a week. It helps that he looks pretty good in the servers’ apron, too.

Jeonghan has been working at this bubble tea shop for only about a month, but almost every time he goes out to wait for his bus, he sees this guy.  _ This guy, _ whom his friend Seungkwan has dubbed “the pretty cat-eye guy”, is exactly that: he is prettier than any man Jeonghan has laid his eyes on, and the curve of his eyes is strikingly feline.

He sees this guy more often than he sees some of his professors. Jeonghan gets closer to him, too, sometimes, in that little bus shelter when the weather’s bad: they shuffle in together to avoid the wind or rain or, as of late, snow, and nod and smile at each other awkwardly.

This guy is just so cute Jeonghan finds himself tongue-tied every time their eyes meet. And that happens so frequently Jeonghan wishes he would just die already.

At least Seungkwan appreciates the drama. He grins at Jeonghan across the counter, bubble tea in hand, hip braced against a dessert display, as Jeonghan recounts his latest run-in with the guy.

“It’s not like you to be shy,” Seungkwan says. The way his words fall around the grin on his face would make Jeonghan blush if he were the blushing type.

“I see him too regularly to make a move at the fucking bus stop,” Jeonghan whines. “I mean, what if he’s not into it? Then we’ll have to wait at the stop together in awkward silence, and then I’ll have to quit my job, and then what’ll happen to my student debt, Seungkwan?”

“I’m sure if you cry your fat crocodile tears at Trudeau, he’ll do  _ something.  _ Pretty boy solidarity or something like that.”

Jeonghan huffs. He might be pouting a little, too.

“You think you’re so damn funny,” Jeonghan grumbles.

Seungkwan throws up his free hand. “What else do you want me to say? You already seem to have made up your mind about not asking for his number at the very least. There’s not much left to discuss at this point.”

Groaning, Jeonghan launches himself away from the counter and staggers towards the blenders in the back. He drapes a hand over his forehead, and just as he’s about to bump into the cupboards, as was choreographed, one of his coworkers emerges from the breakroom and stops him.

“Hyung!” Seokmin cries, catching him by the shoulders.

Jeonghan falls into his arms immediately. His arms fall over Seokmin’s elbows, boneless like a ragdoll, as he buries his face into Seokmin’s shirt.

He feels Seokmin turn his head to face Seungkwan.

“Is this about Pretty Cat-Eye Guy?” Seokmin asks.

“Of course it’s about Pretty Cat-Eye Guy,” Seungkwan replies. Jeonghan can’t see him, but he’s pretty sure Seungkwan’s lifting his chin a little, maybe sniffling, too, like it’s just  _ so _ obvious that Jeonghan would only ever come to such dramatics over this guy.

Which is true, but still.

The bell on the front door jingles. A group of people enter the shop, and Seungkwan takes that as his cue to leave.

Jeonghan spins around in Seokmin’s arms to give Seungkwan one last pitiful look. His pout is pretty impressive, and everyone in the room knows it, but Seungkwan is only moved to the point where he reaches out and pats Jeonghan on the head.

“You know, maybe you’ll run into him some other time,” Seungkwan says. “Maybe it’ll be a Christmas miracle.”

Jeonghan’s pout intensifies. Seungkwan laughs, though not unkindly, and gives Jeonghan one last pat.

“See you around! Don’t forget to like and subscribe!” he calls over his shoulder. It’s his way of saying goodbye even offline; it used to be a little annoying, but Seungkwan’s charisma wins every time. Truly a force to be reckoned with.

The after-school rush hits and Jeonghan forgets about Pretty Cat-Eye Guy for a while. He watches the sun set right before his shift ends, his elbows balanced on the dessert display as he stares out the window.

“He’s gonna be out there again,” Jeonghan sighs. “I just know it.”

“You guys have also been on the same schedule for the past three weeks,” Seokmin adds. “It’s a little weird.”

Jeonghan’s shoulders slump. “He probably goes to school, too. Why haven’t I seen him on campus?”

“What makes you think he goes to the same school as you?”

“I don’t know!” Jeonghan cries as he fully sinks into his folded forearms. “It’d be damn nice! The universe has to cut me some slack at some point, right?”

Seokmin laughs and pats Jeonghan on the back. “Come on, hyung. It’s time for you to go home and get some rest.”

It takes a bit of coaxing, but Jeonghan gets out of his apron and pulls on his jacket. Seokmin offers him a wave and a smile on his way out, and then it’s just Jeonghan versus the possibility that Pretty Cat-Eye Guy will show up at the bus stop.

Jeonghan rounds the street corner, passing the dumpster behind the bubble tea shop. It’s dark out already, the sky a deep jet black despite it being only a bit after seven p.m.—the telltale sign that November is on its way out and that Christmas is on its heels. The skyrises that sprout out of the downtown soil serve as beacons in the distance, his immediate path lit by street lamps. Moonlight reflects off the curves of the Marilyn Monroe buildings not too far from here, and soon, Christmas lights will lead the way, too.

The bus stop sits in front of a park. Shoddier apartment buildings stand behind the park, and Jeonghan is certain there will soon be snowmen standing guard by the jungle gym.

But for now, it’s just him… and Pretty Cat-Eye Guy. Jeonghan takes a deep breath before he crosses the street and joins him.

Pretty Cat-Eye Guy gives him a smile and a wave, as is customary by now. But he has earbuds plugged in, and soon his eyes drift off to the horizon. Jeonghan wonders what the man might be thinking about. Maybe his skin care routine. Jeonghan would love to hear about that. Hell, he’d kill just to exchange a few words with the guy.

The bus pulls up before his thoughts can get away from him. Jeonghan always times his exit just right; it means less standing around in the cold.

The rumble of the bus engine cuts through the fog of his thoughts, and the cool air in his mind dissipates as the dry warmth of the bus sneaks in through the layers of his clothes. His glasses fog up a bit as he enters and gives the bus driver a silly smile.

Jeonghan prefers the backseat, whereas Pretty Cat-Eye Guy usually sits in the middle, where the seats face the back doors. That position gives Jeonghan a good view; it’s his small comfort at the end of the day, when he knows he’s got homework waiting for him and another day of classes ahead of him.

For now, it’s just him, Pretty Cat-Eye Guy, and his colourful imagination. Once he settles into his seat at the back

* * *

Friday nights are dungeons and dragons nights. It’s pretty much the opposite of glamorous, but Seungkwan doesn’t think it gets much more exciting than this. It’s a fun way to get his creative juices flowing in a setting outside of his comedy youtube channel, and it always keeps him thinking.

Their party is taking a snack break (and their DM is taking preventative measures against another UTI) as Seungkwan scrolls his instagram feed. The dubstep track that echoes lowly in Soonyoung’s dance studio serves as a strange juxtaposition to the soft selfies that Seungkwan’s perusing, but he’s used to it by now; probably one of the worst things they’ve discovered about their DM, Jihoon, is that he is a glutton for pain and takes on Soonyoung’s shitty dance remixes with ease.

Seokmin plops down next to him on the floor and wordlessly offers him a bag of chips.

“No thanks,” Seungkwan replies, a touch of a wistful sigh in his tone.

Hansol takes a seat on Seungkwan’s other side and holds out a bottle of water. Seungkwan takes it without looking up from his phone.

“He’s dieting,” Hansol replies, a sigh of his own in his voice. 

“Listen,” Seungkwan says, “don’t judge me, but like, if some dudes on instagram can get free stuff just for looking pretty, why can’t I?”

“No one’s judging you, Kwannie,” Hansol replies immediately, as if on cue.

Seokmin makes a noise of understanding. “You’re already handsome, Seungkwan,” he says, and it’s just so plain and straightforward out of his mouth that Seungkwan can feel his sincerity.

“I know, I know,” Seungkwan says, “but I’ve got some mean competition.”

Soonyoung crawls over from the game table and almost entirely onto Seokmin’s lap. “I heard instagram,” he says. “You guys aren’t talking about That Guy, right?”

“Hey, look, we’re not talking about That Guy, okay?” Seungkwan replies too quickly. His voice rises at the end, and Soonyoung giggles.

Scowling, Seungkwan swipes at Soonyoung’s shoulder. “Don’t,” he warns. “Just don’t.”

“I mean, isn’t that the  _ real _ reason you’re dieting—”

Just as Seungkwan moves to take another swing at Soonyoung, Hansol grabs Seungkwan around his waist and Seokmin rolls over to block Soonyoung. A moment of quiet passes, thrumming with the bass of the background music.

Jeonghan returns to the room and stops at the end of the stairs when he lays eyes on the pile of bodies against a mirror.

“You guys are having a cuddle pile without me?” he asks. Seungkwan can hear his pout all the way across the room.

There are a couple of false starts all across the board as the boys try to explain themselves, but the words fall on deaf ears. Jeonghan approaches them with measured steps, his face carefully blank now. He comes to a stop in front of Seungkwan and glances down at his phone.

“I see,” he says quietly. 

The rest of the boys send him worried looks.

A smirk curves Jeonghan’s lips.

“Did you know,” Jeonghan starts, “that Mr. Worldwide Handsome was featured on a ‘try not to laugh’ video? Like, not as the footage, but as a reaction vid.”

Seungkwan jumps to his feet. He grabs Jeonghan by the front of his shirt, his phone clutched in one hand, and pulls him close.

“What? When was this? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Seungkwan hisses.

Jeonghan laughs. “Well, the video is on some rando’s channel, firstly,” Jeonghan replies. “Secondly, it was uploaded while we were playing, and I know you have your phone on ‘do not disturb’ while we’re playing.”

Seungkwan huffs. It’s only courteous to put his full attention on the game, even during long combat rounds.

“I’ve been on instagram for the past fifteen minutes and I haven’t seen anything yet!” Seungkwan yells. His voice is echoing in the room now, but he doesn’t care. No else seems to mind either: they’ve all gotten to their feet to crowd around Jeonghan and Seungkwan.

“Check your phone now,” Jeonghan says simply.

Seungkwan releases his shirt with alarming speed and unlocks his phone again. Lo and behold, at the top of his instagram feed is a new post from the account wenjunhui061096. There are several screenshots from the video, and at the bottom is a caption in Chinese and its translation:

‘Hi guys! I was invited to my friend’s channel to participate in his first “try not to laugh” challenge! Spoiler alert: we laugh. Hard. Please send your love and support!’

The text is followed by the guy’s youtube channel. Even Seungkwan doesn’t know him, and Seungkwan makes an effort to get to know as many people in his sphere as possible.

“We have to watch this right now!” Seungkwan screams.

“What the hell is happening?” Jihoon asks, having just descended the stairs.

Seungkwan gestures with his arms, making wide arcs around his body. Jihoon approaches him with a furrow in his brow.

“Interpretive dance?” he asks.

Seungkwan shakes his head so hard it looks as if it will fall off.

“No! Your projector! I need it!” Seungkwan replies.

Jihoon reaches up to pat Seungkwan’s cheek none too gently. “Get a hold of yourself, kid,” he says. “Use your inside voice. The suits working overtime upstairs might just give us a hard time.”

Although it takes some effort, Seungkwan takes a few deep breaths and gathers some of his composure. But he grabs Jihoon’s shoulder afterwards and steers him towards his computer setup.

Here in Soonyoung’s dance studio, there’s a projector directed towards the front of the room. Soonyoung is notoriously bad at handling any sort of technology besides his phone, so, in exchange for using the studio for DND, Jihoon manages his shortcuts, playlists, and permissions on the studio’s desktop.

In a matter of seconds, Jihoon has youtube pulled up. Seungkwan tries to recite the video URL to him, but Jihoon goes to instagram instead and clicks on the link on the post.

The video setup is modest, but at least their camera doesn’t autofocus every time the subjects move. It doesn’t do wenjunhui061096—or, as he calls himself, Jun—the justice he deserves, but Seungkwan doesn’t think twice about it as soon as the vine compilations start rolling and Jun’s face starts contorting with restrained laughter.

It’s cute. Of course it’s cute. Everything Jun does is cute and Seungkwan knew this would be overwhelming the moment he saw the link, but the world stops when a clip of Seungkwan himself comes up.

This particular vine of his is what got Seungkwan’s youtube career rolling. It’s definitely less put-together than any of his other works, but maybe that was its charming point. 

That’s what makes Jun break—it’s also what makes Seungkwan break into near-tears. A rush of emotion passes through him, and he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry or fall to his knees.

Jun’s laugh is beautiful, yes, but what fills Seungkwan with warmth is the validation. Knowing that Jun thinks he’s funny… it’s the best Christmas gift he could ever receive. His humour is hs best trait, and if someone can’t appreciate it in full, Seungkwan doesn’t think he could get along with them.

The rest of the reaction video passes in a blur. Everyone else in the room laughs at appropriate moments—minus Soonyoung, who’s watching Seungkwan with a contemplative look—until Jihoon returns the projection to their map.

Quiet falls over the room. Seungkwan takes a deep breath and wipes at his eyes.

“You’re so fucked,” Soonyoung says, a wisp of a laugh on his breath.

This time, no one stops him when Seungkwan lunges at Soonyoung.

 

* * *

 

The end of November is always a fucking nightmare: due dates pile up and overlap and Jihoon starts to run on coffee and takeout. He can make an extra large pizza last a week if he has to.

Working at home has always been difficult for him: there are too many distractions at home, and he definitely can’t play Overwatch in the study room despite having all the equipment there with him. Yelling at strangers on the internet would get him kicked out for sure.

However, the study room is always so fucking busy this time of year. It’s open 24/7 and stays busy until around 11pm. But that works out for Jihoon and his nightowl tendencies: he lives close to campus, so it’s easy for him to set up camp around 11pm and stay until the wee hours of the morning. 

Most people tend to filter out around 1am or 2am; he feels a certain camaraderie with those who persevere until 3am or 4am. 

Tonight, he’s one of the last ones standing. Fatigue comes and goes in waves, warded off by canned coffee and Red Bull. The complete silence of the room propels him forward, however, pushing his limbs through the motions. Open notes, write flashcard, add it to the pile, repeat. He can start the memorization process with fresh eyes tomorrow.

Jihoon does eventually get up to pee. He doesn’t bother asking his neighbour to watch his stuff: no one’s around to steal it minus security, and he doubts even they have the time to spare to consider stealing his laptop.

On his way back, he almost trips over himself in surprise: sitting at a cubicle one row down from him is Choi Seungcheol. Jihoon hasn’t seen the man in months, and even then they only ever bump into each other because of their mutual friends.

It’s not that Jihoon dislikes him or anything—that would take too much effort. It’s just that… well, they used to be friends. They used to be quite close, actually. They went to the same high school and ended up in the same university thanks to its proximity to home. But as time went by, it got harder and harder to keep in touch. Their worlds didn’t overlap in the way that they used to; they ran out of excuses to see each other. Sometimes they ended up at the same parties and they’d try to catch up then, but that was always the end of it.

Part of Jihoon is delighted to see Seungcheol. But the rest of him flushes with nervousness; a whole-body warmth diffuses through his system.

Although it took Jihoon a long time to acknowledge this, he has come to realize another reason he avoided maintaining contact with Seungcheol is his unwavering attraction to the man. Back in high school, it was easy to dismiss it as admiration for an upperclassman. Everyone feels a flutter in their stomach when they hang out with the school’s basketball star and honour roll student, right?

But that never explained why his gut twisted at prom when he saw Seungcheol dancing with someone else, or when Seungcheol got his first girlfriend in first year, or when Seungcheol got his first boyfriend the following semester.

It was easier for Jihoon to ignore his texts when he had school work on his hands. It was easier for Jihoon to rush past him on campus when they were headed in opposite directions. It slowly became easier and easier for Jihoon to phase Seungcheol out of his life, and the ease at which the transition happened was enough for Jihoon to think that maybe this was how it was meant to go.

Who knows who Seungcheol might be seeing now (he’s single, actually, if Facebook was to be trusted) and who knows what Seungcheol might be doing with his life (doing an internship with Rogers if Facebook was to be trusted again). Jihoon can’t be bothered to care right then and there.

So he gathers his composure and returns to his cubicle. He downs the last of his Redbull and gets back to work.

He writes only one flashcard before turning in for the day.

————————————

Senior year is kicking Seungcheol’s ass.

He supposes it only makes sense. He’s wrapping things up so he can get that degree and get the fuck out of this hellhole. Well, okay, he likes his school—the occasional deer are  _ very _ cute—and he likes his town. But he’s sick of being evaluated at someone else’s whim. 

He’s kicking his own ass as finals season rolls in. This semester, he was fortunate enough not to have any morning classes, so he’s spent his nights in the study room. Although many people succumb to finals-panicking and flip their schedules to “maximize” studying time, the study room is still wonderfully empty in the early hours of the a.m.

But not empty enough.

Seungcheol has noticed Jihoon’s common appearance here in the dead hours of the night; it’s very characteristic of Jihoon to avoid people and take advantage of the silence. But Seungcheol has never had any intention of approaching the man—not after all this time. It’s just… that’s weird, isn’t it? He doubts Jihoon is the same guy Seungcheol used to know. Even if his bad sleeping habits have survived after all these years, that’s gotta be only one of the few things that have stayed the same.

Right?

Seungcheol isn’t keen on finding out. They’ve already tried the reconnection game and it hasn’t worked out once.

With only so many days before the semester is over, it’s easy to keep track of who comes in and out of the room. In Seungcheol’s fits of procrastination, he makes a game out of it, keeps track of how long people can last in vague quantities.

_ I will be the last one, _ he thinks to himself.  _ I will be the lone survivor. _

The creak and swing of the door keeps him on track. Footsteps set a rhythm as they exit.

He does win it out a few times. Security and custodians nod at him when he finally leaves at 5:37a.m., his best record.

But as November comes to a close, Jihoon proves himself to be a worthy adversary. If Seungcheol remembers correctly, Jihoon values sleep a little more than Seungcheol does (sleep is for the weak!), and until then, he’d been right. 

12:44. Seungcheol looks away from the broken clock on the east wall and verifies the time on his phone. The digital display says “3:11”. Not too bad yet. A quick glance around the room tells Seungcheol that there are fewer than ten heads left in the room; they’ll probably be gone in the next hour.

Jihoon sits on the other side of the room, his back to Seungcheol. He’s got a tower of energy drinks stacked next to his laptop and a pile of notebooks on the other side. He’s a machine of flashcard creation and liquid caffeine consumption, and Seungcheol finds himself full of admiration rather than disgust.

Stress does strange things to people.

The next forty minutes passes in a blur as Seungcheol kicks himself back into gear. He rewrites notes and writes out a few flashcards, too. It’s only when he nearly knocks a pile of notes onto the salt-stained floor that he takes another break.

Three players remain, including Seungcheol and Jihoon. A pen continues its frantic scratch across paper.

Seungcheol leans back in his seat and looks at the back of Jihoon’s head. His hair is dark again, after a couple years of bleaching it and colouring it. He’s wearing a cap, but he chooses that exact moment to lift it and run his fingers through his hair.

He’s still got such pretty hands. Seungcheol sighs.

Tonight isn’t the night to attempt anything. The sleep deprivation changes nothing, though it does relieve him of some reservations.

He takes a blank piece of paper and puts his pen to it. What should he say?

He scrawls “good luck” onto it before folding it into an airplane. He tosses it in Jihoon’s direction.

He misses.

It takes him five more tries. The other person in the room side-eyes Seungcheol before they leave.

The paper airplane makes a direct hit to the back of Jihoon’s head. For a moment, nothing happens. The sound of the heating system trying its best filters through the walls, coaxed in by the silence.

Then, Jihoon moves. He fishes the paper plane out of his hood and looks over his shoulder.

Seungcheol wiggles his fingers when they make eye contact, can’t help the sort of nervous giggle that comes out of his mouth. Jihoon looks at him with dark, dark eyes, a furrow in his brow just barely visible under the brim of his cap. The corners of his mouth twitch, and then he’s turning around again.

Seungcheol considers that a victory. It’s enough to get him to relinquish the  _ real _ victory, which has him leaving the room before Jihoon has too much time to consider murdering him.

They’ll be back to it tomorrow, Seungcheol is sure of it.


	2. Chapter 2

When Chan gets out of class, he unlocks his phone and finds several snaps from Soonyoung lying in his inbox. He opens them as he walks, but it turns out to be a bad idea: the photos contain Soonyoung dressed to the nines, his dark hair slicked back out of his eyes. He’s even got a bit of smudged eyeliner on, something he usually saves for shows or special occasions. The image is enough to make Chan stop and stare.

Several people grumble from behind Chan before they shoulder past him. Chan can’t even formulate an apology—his brain is scrambled eggs. Something like this wouldn’t normally catch Chan off guard. In fact, Chan’s usually there with Soonyoung, fixing his buttons or his hair gel.

But this… This is for the party, Chan knows it. But this is a bit much. No, this is definitely A Lot.

Chan relocates to a bench and opens his texts.

 

[ **Chan** ]: don’t tell me this is for the party   
[ **Soonyoung** ]: it is! I just wanted to get your approval ahead of time, just in case   
[ **Soonyoung** ]: the party is next week, isn’t it?   
[ **Chan** ]: don’t you think this is a bit much??   
[ **Soonyoung** ]: not at all   
[ **Soonyoung** ]: anyway, you know me: go big or go home, right?   


He’s right. This is classic Soonyoung, and Chan honestly shouldn’t have expected less.

 

[ **Soonyoung** ]: by the way, i’ve got the car today. i can come pick you up from campus if you don’t have any plans. we can try to coordinate?   
[ **Chan** ]: this isn’t prom, soonyoung   
[ **Soonyoung** ]: hey, is that any way to speak to your elders? hmmm?   
[ **Chan** ]: ok HYUNG   
[ **Chan** ]: also yes i would love a ride please come get me

 

Soonyoung sends him a bunch of emojis with the tongues sticking out. Chan replies exasperatedly with hamster emojis.

When Soonyoung pulls up on campus, he’s still got the eyeliner on. Chan eyes him as he approaches the passenger seat.

“You’ve still got, you know,” Chan mumbles, gesturing to the upper half of his face, as Soonyoung rolls down the window.

Soonyoung grins at him, his eyes curving. “I know,” he replies, “I wanted your opinion on that, too.”

His face relaxes, and Chan can see the full effects of the makeup: it extends the lines of his upper lids with a bit of dramatic flair. Very Soonyoung, if he’s honest. His eyes look bigger like this, and they seem to burn holes into Chan’s skull as long as he holds his gaze.

Chan averts his eyes and climbs into the car.

“Close the window, it’s freezing,” Chan grumbles as he buckles in.

Soonyoung does as he’s told. The background chatter and the whistle of the wind are sealed out of the interior, leaving the two of them alone with whatever dubstep track is playing on the stereos.

“Well?” Soonyoung prompts him.

Chan shrugs. “It looks nice,” he says, looking out the window.

“Hey.”

Suddenly, Soonyoung’s got a hand on Chan’s chin, jerking his face towards him.

“You can’t say anything about how I look if you’re not looking at me,” Soonyoung states.

Soonyoung’s grip seems to linger; Chan doesn’t want to comment on that at all.

“I said it looks nice!” Chan insists. His eyes meet Soonyoung’s dead on. “It makes your eyes look bigger. It’s not as flashy as your stage makeup, which is good, because this is just a family party and you don’t need to impress anyone.”

At that, Soonyoung drops his hand. But he’s grinning.

“What if I want to impress them?” Soonyoung asks.

The turn in conversation seems to remind Soonyoung that they should get moving. The car pulls forward, sliding out of the carpool space and onto the road. They pass by several buses sitting at the university terminal, past rows and rows of trees and leftover frost from last week’s cold spell. Chan keeps an eye out for any wandering deer.

“Why would you want to impress them, Soonyoung?” Chan asks without looking in his direction.

Soonyoung snorts. “I dunno, kid,” he replies, his tone somewhere in the area of both irritated and joking, “maybe I want to get these people to realize that you being gay doesn’t, like, change you at all, or make you a bad person, or whatever the fuck these people think.”

Silence sidles into the space between the wheel and the glove box. It settles onto Chan’s lap like a set of heavy chains, like a sleeping, wild animal.

“You think you can do that by pretending to be my boyfriend for a night?” Chan asks, his voice falling out of his mouth just over the music acting as a barrier between them.

“I can certainly try, can’t I?”

They pull up at a red light. Soonyoung runs a hand through his hair before turning to look at Chan with a smile on his face.

“Besides, there’ll be free food, right?” he asks. His cheeks squish his eyes as usual, but there’s something hidden in the curve of his eyelids.

“Yeah.” Chan maintains his stare until Soonyoung has to return his gaze to the road. When Soonyoung turns away, Chan feels his chest expand with air; he feels lightheaded. “Yeah. The one redeeming quality about these parties is the food. Oh, and the alcohol.”

“Oh, sweet.”

“Yeah, lots of eggnog cocktails and holiday punch.”

“I am quite partial to holiday punch, after all.”

Chan stifles a laugh. Soonyoung grins.

The ride to Soonyoung’s place isn’t long, though as they pass the downtown core, Soonyoung takes a moment to admire the line of Christmas trees decorating a traffic island. As shimmering lights filter into the car and paint both their faces in reds, pinks, greens, and yellows, Soonyoung reaches over to play with the radio.

“Oh no,” Chan says.

“Oh yes,” Soonyoung replies.

Despite his words, Chan’s grinning, and Michael Buble comes to life through the speakers.

They scream-sing all the way to Soonyoung’s apartment, located somewhere on the shadier side of urban living. It’s not bad—it’s a little dirty, a little rusty, a little run-down, but it’s not bad. A major road branches off into residential threads, and Soonyoung navigates them with the ease of familiarity.

“Wonwoo’s at work, so don’t worry about him or explaining the situation to him or anything,” Soonyoung states as he opens the door to his shared apartment.

They step into a small living space. There’s an entertainment setup a couple steps away from the door, equipped with a PS4 in rest mode and some old Nintendo consoles. A few discarded sweaters lie draped over the backs of chairs, some plastic things from Ikea and one beat-up armchair handed down from a family member. The most pristine piece of furniture is their couch—and that’s saying something, since there are a couple of mismatched socks sticking out of the spaces between the cushions.

Chan steps over everything without blinking; he’s been over countless times. He heads straight for the kitchen.

“I’m putting on some tea; do you want some?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Yes, please, thank you, my dear,” Soonyoung shouts over from his room.

Chan’s nose scrunches up. “What’s that, you’re getting in some petname practice?” he asks.

As Chan grabs some cups and pulls out boxes of tea, he hears nothing in response but the sound of drawers being pulled and closet doors being opened. He sighs. Typical Soonyoung.

Eventually, the kettle comes to a boil, pulling Chan away from browsing his Facebook feed with his phone. It’s only when he starts pouring water that Soonyoung decides to show his face again.

Soonyoung bursts out of his room and slides across the floor in his socks. The low-hanging cupboards obstruct Chan’s view a little bit, so he bends his knees and balances his head on his hands to get a better look.

There’s no glitter, thank god. But the outfit is a mish-mash of old stage costumes: he’s got on a black waistcoat with a dark red blazer over it, its black lapels streaming seamlessly down to his black slacks. A red stripe runs up either side of his legs up over his hips, though the colour doesn’t quite match the jacket.

Chan leans back, humming.

Soonyoung holds out his arms. “Well?” he asks, his voice high with expectation.

Chan resists the urge to roll his eyes. He steps out of the kitchen space to approach Soonyoung. First, he circles him, tracing his frame with critical eyes.

“Damn, I feel like dinner,” Soonyoung mutters.

“You’d be so lucky,” Chan retorts.

Soonyoung gives a low whistle.

When Chan finishes his analysis, he leans against the back of the kitchen counters. “I like the blazer,” he says, “and the vest is pretty nice. The pants don’t match, though.” He gestures at his collar. “And where’s your tie?”

Soonyoung snorts. “I thought you said it wasn’t an actual black tie event?” he questions.

“What happened to go big or go home?”

Sighing, Soonyoung deflates, bending at the waist. He walks a wobbly path back to his room. “Got me there,” he calls over his shoulder.

Chan finishes preparing the tea before he takes it into Soonyoung’s room. Using his foot, he closes the door behind him and sets the cups down on the nearest clear surface.

Soonyoung’s room is a fucking mess. At least it doesn’t smell. There are clothes _everywhere,_ from sweatpants to jeans to old band shirts he should have gotten rid of years ago but doesn’t have the heart to part with. Chan sweeps a pile of clothes off Soonyoung’s desk chair—the infamous “I haven’t worn this for that long so I can wear it again” pile that may eventually make its way back to his closet—onto the floor and takes a seat.

“Hey,” Soonyoung protests, though there’s no fight in it at all.

He wades through the pool of clothes on the floor and reaches for his cup of tea.

“Handle first, Soonyoung,” Chan reminds him.

“I’m not a baby, Chan,” Soonyoung whines in response.

Chan only shrugs. Soonyoung’s hand corrects its path and grabs the handle of the mug instead of the body. After he takes a sip, he sighs with his entire chest, and returns to rooting through his closet. With a vacancy afforded by routine, he steps out of his pants and puts them away.

Chan’s eyes flit up, catching the movement and sudden change in colour as Soonyoung’s legs go from clad in black to bare and pale. It’s a familiar sight: when you grow up with someone, when you grow up dancing with someone, you see them in various states of undress.

After a couple minutes of quiet, with Chan occupied by his phone, Soonyoung turns around again.

“Oh my god,” Chan groans, “I didn’t say show your dick to everyone.”

“Shut up!” Soonyoung cries, laughing.

The pants are a little bit tighter than the last pair, but that’s really the only special thing about them. The shade of black still matches the blazer lapels, which is the important part, Chan supposes.

“I haven’t worn them in a while; guess I must have gained some weight,” Soonyoung muses. He hobbles over to his full-length mirror and stares at his reflection. He hums.

“Kinda looks like I have an ass,” he comments. “Sorry, I think I’m gonna keep these.”

“Then what was the point of bringing me over if I don’t get a say in anything?”

“Can’t I just hang out with a friend?”

Chan rolls his eyes but hides his expression behind his tea.

Then, Soonyoung turns to face Chan, the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of of his lips. As he approaches, feet light despite the obstacles littering the floor, Chan sees that he’s holding out a tie.

Sighing, Chan gets to his feet. “One day,” he starts, taking the tie, “you’re going to have to learn how to do this yourself.”

“Why should I when I have you?” Soonyoung counters.

“You’re the one who said you’re not a baby,” Chan replies, “but you’re not doing a very good job of supporting that claim.”

“You just make it so easy,” Soonyoung says.

In this proximity, Chan can feel Soonyoung’s breath against his cheek, feel his body heat spilling from him in waves. He’s already started sweating and all he’s been doing is pulling on clothes.

Soonyoung’s kind of a wreck, but Chan’s used to it. Before he pulls away, Chan gives the tie a tug, yanking Soonyoung down to his height. Soonyoung loses his balance, surprised, and sends Chan an unimpressed look.

“That’s what you get for making me tie it for you,” Chan says. Soonyoung’s stare doesn’t lose its intensity, and Chan looks away. “I mean. Gotta test its tightness, right?”

He steps away. Soonyoung’s face softens and he shrugs.

“So,” Soonyoung starts, turning back to his mirror. He adjusts the tie and pushes his hair out of his face. “Guess the theme of the night is red. Though I guess you could go with green if we really want to push for that Christmas theme.”

“I think red is fine,” Chan replies.

“Green’s not your colour, huh?”

“Well, I kinda like the prom-level coordination,” Chan says. “I think it’ll really scream ‘gay’ more than anything.”

Soonyoung snorts. “If you say so,” he replies. “You’re the one who said this wasn’t prom, or whatever.” He turns on his heel, and as he stands there, shoulders broad in that red blazer, eyes dark and big in that eyeliner, hair mussed and slightly damp, Chan can’t help but think that he will, in fact, leave a sizeable impression on his neighbours.

They can only hope it’ll be a positive one.

Soonyoung tilts his head. “Do you wanna get dinner?” he asks, and the sudden turn in conversation reminds Chan that, despite the gravity of the upcoming party, they’re still friends, in the end.

“If you’re paying, then sure,” Chan replies, a smile tucked in the corners of his mouth.

Soonyoung heaves a huge, dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky you’re cute, kid!” he cries.

Chan gets to his feet, laughing. “I try my hardest every damn day. Now come on, don’t pull the tie like that, you’ll ruin it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Joshua stares up at the television mounted on the wall, watching figures dance across the screen without really paying much attention.

December’s finally here. Students have been coming to the restaurant more and more frequently, bringing takeout with them to the study room or god knows where else. Joshua would know: he’s been that guy a couple times this week already.

He’s not a terrible student, but there’s only so much he can handle while also working part time. Lately, he’s been holing up here at work—waiting tables at a family friend’s restaurant—for a bit before and after his shifts, getting in some cram time before busting his ass serving customers. It’s not a bad deal, and then he can just crash when he gets home.

The best part about doing this lately is avoiding the pretty guy who almost always shows up at the same bus stop as him at the same time every day. They’ve been bumping into each other for at least a month—Joshua swears he sees this guy more often than he sees some of his professors.

And it’s not that Joshua dislikes this guy or anything—quite the opposite, really. Part of him wants to say something, anything. Waiting for the bus and riding it with this guy so often has become intimate in a way Joshua can’t quite describe, but at the same time, they’re not friends or anything.

He could try to change that, but it’s been so long now that he fears it might be too late.

“Why, though?” his friend, Hansol, asks, the end of a chopstick hovering between his teeth. “Is there a due date for that kind of thing? Do you think he’s dying?”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he grumbles. “Don’t you think it would be awkward if I decided to talk to him out of the blue?”

“Would it really be out of the blue if you guys see each other so often?” Hansol replies.

Joshua takes a deep breath. He exhales between his teeth before saying, “look. I haven’t seen him for a while, so it’s whatever. If I do start seeing him again, there’ll be enough time between now and then that I won’t feel as weird about seeing him. Then, like, if the mood is good or something, I’ll talk to him.”

Hansol stares at him. Then, he quirks an eyebrow.

“You’ve really thought this over, huh,” he says, somewhere between impressed and disbelieving.

Joshua shrugs. “Maybe,” he says, trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible.

Hansol seems to buy it. Or maybe he’s just taking his time thinking of an answer.

“Maybe you should get him something for Christmas,” Hansol suggests.

Joshua sighs, deflating completely. “Dude, I don’t know if he celebrates Christmas. Besides, what would I even get him?”

“Chocolate? Everyone loves chocolate.”

“He could be allergic for all I know!”

“Haven’t you seen him eating a chocolate bar or something?” Hansol seems unfazed by all this, despite the way Joshua’s voice has been climbing in volume over the past few answers. “Since you seem to stare at him so much, I figure you must have picked up some things about him.”

A blush starts to colour Joshua’s cheeks. “L-Listen,” he protests, but he has no follow-up.

He sighs again, dropping his face into his hand. “I mean,” Joshua mutters, “he seems to like bubble tea. And black turtlenecks.”

“Turtlenecks are in again,” Hansol replies. “But the bubble tea thing is a good start.” He narrows his eyes at Joshua, considering. “Are you sure that’s all you know? You’ve been talking about him nonstop since you laid eyes on the guy.”

“Don’t call me out like this,” Josh grumbles. He runs a hand through his hair; it’s pretty bad if Hansol of all people is side-eyeing him. “I don’t know. He has a coin pouch separate from his wallet, and it has a cute giraffe print. He wears earbuds, not headphones, and he uses an iPhone. Sometimes I see him listening to pop music, some ballads, too.”

“Screen-looking, huh,” Hansol mutters. “That’s low.”

Joshua rolls his eyes. “I’ve accepted this about myself; don’t remind me.”

All Josh gets in response is a shrug.

“Well, if you’re already screen-looking, maybe you guys have some musicians in common,” Hansol says. “I don’t want to say I condone this behaviour, but also, like—” he makes a wiggly gesture with his hand. “Come on, man. You’re only hurting yourself.”

“Don’t go all wise-sage on me, dude.” Joshua gets up, avoiding Hansol’s gaze. “Anyway, do you want anything else?” he adds. “We can split something before I start my shift.”

As Hansol peruses the menu, Joshua’s mind drifts. What are the chances he’ll run into the guy if he stays past his shift again? But he could really use the extra study time… He supposes it won’t be any good if all he’ll be thinking about is how to approach his bus stop buddy.

It’s only when he almost walks into a dish cart that he manages to pull his head out of the clouds.

 

 

The bubble tea shop door opens with a frantic jingle of bells. Seungkwan marches in without a care for the melted snow pooled by the entrance.

“Jeonghan!” he cries. “I am _livid!”_

Jeonghan stands up a tiny bit straighter, but by now, he’s used to the way Seungkwan’s voice rises.

“What’s wrong, buttercup?” Jeonghan asks.

Seungkwan finishes his journey to the front counter and slams his hand next to the register.

“Hansol knows your boy!” Seungkwan announces, a hint of coarse frustration to his tone. “He knows him! He knew him this whole time!”

That has Jeonghan upright in no time. He leans forward, so close that his nose almost touches Seungkwan’s.

“Tell me _everything,”_ Jeonghan whispers. “Right. Now.”

Drawing himself up higher, Seungkwan takes a deep breath. Jeonghan knows Seungkwan is weaving together a compelling narrative in the confines of that sharp brain of his, so he leans back and waits patiently.

“First,” Seungkwan starts, “I need something to wet my throat. Can’t get into this with a dry mouth.”

Jeonghan would roll his eyes if he weren’t waiting on Seungkwan’s every word. A sigh does slip out, however, as he turns and puts together Seungkwan’s regular order: an okinawa milk tea with pearls.

With his fresh drink in one hand, Seungkwan grabs Jeonghan with his free hand and drags him towards the table nearest to the counter. Once seated, Jeonghan isn’t sure what to do with his own hands; they fidget in his lap, impatient as Seungkwan sips and sips.

Seungkwan sets his drink down with a decisive breath.

“It’s all because you guys never fucking asked for each other’s names,” Seungkwan starts.

Jeonghan deflates a little, but he’s still hanging on the edge of his seat—literally.

“He’s Hansol childhood friend. They grew up on the same street together—but since they don’t have any other friends in common, it never occurred to Hansol to introduce the guy to us,” Seungkwan explains. “Which, I mean, sounds kinda sketchy, but.”

Humming, Jeonghan sits back. This is a lot to process.

The corners of Seungkwan’s lips curl. “But,” he says, “I heard he’s a fan of my YouTube channel, so he can’t be that sketchy. Maybe he’s just shy? I heard he’s an only child.”

Jeonghan snorts, a purely disbelieving sound. “You certainly did your research.”

Seungkwan sits back as well and crosses his arms over his chest. “Of course I did,” he scoffs. “When Hansol told me, I made him cough up everything.”

“How did that conversation go, by the way?”

“Well,” Seungkwan starts. He waves a hand in front of his face and puts on a blank expression with a hint of surprise—an impression of Hansol, most likely. “‘Dude, you’re not gonna believe this!’” Seungkwan continues in a lower pitch.

Seungkwan turns his head to look at the space beside him. “Whatever are you talking about, best friend?”

Then, he turns his body to fill the space he was just talking to. “‘I know Jeonghan’s bus guy! You know, what do you call him, Cat-Something?’”

And again, Seungkwan turns his body to the other side. “Pretty Cat-Eye Guy. Get it right, Hansol.’”

Somehow, he manages to roll his eyes at himself. “‘Whatever. Anyway, get this—it’s a friend of mine! He’s been telling me pretty much the same story that Jeonghan has been telling, but with different names.’”

“Wait—” Jeonghan holds out a hand to pause Seungkwan’s little skit. “Does that mean he has a cute nickname for me, too?”

Seungkwan’s eyebrows do a little jig on his face. Jeonghan immediately recognizes it as Seungkwan’s attempt to hide a negative reaction, but he still has hope.

“If you think ‘bus guy’ is a cute nickname, then sure,” Seungkwan replies. He waves a hand as if physically dismissing the thought. “Whatever—the point is, Hansol never put two and two together because you guys don’t know each other’s names, and also he keeps forgetting where you work.”

“But you bring him back bubble tea all the time!”

Rolling his eyes, Seungkwan replies, “right? The boy can be so dense sometimes.”

“Okay,” Jeonghan says with a note of finality, “tell me everything you know.”

Seungkwan lays out the details in a clear manner, using his video introduction voice: Joshua is the same age as Jeonghan, goes to the same school, lives across the street from him, and works at the restaurant on the other side of the plaza the bubble tea shop is.

“Wait,” Jeonghan says. “You don’t mean—”

Seungkwan nods gravely. “Yes,” he replies. “He works at Food Mood. That means he’ll be going to the Christmas party.”

 _The Christmas Party._ Although Jeonghan has only been working here for about a month or so, he’s been invited to the annual Christmas party that the shops in this plaza throw together. He was told last week, and it’s scheduled to take place next Friday.

“Oh god,” Jeonghan whispers. “I only have a week to prepare.”

With another wave of his hand, Seungkwan replies, “no big deal. You’ve faced worse than this. You’ve overcome greater obstacles.”

It sounds a little dramatic, but Jeonghan smiles anyway. “Glad to have you as a cheerleader, Seungkwannie,” he says.

Seungkwan beams. “Of course! Let me know if you want to go shopping; I can give you a lift after your shift today.”

Jeonghan squints at him. “You just wanted a mall buddy, didn’t you?” he asks, his tone bordering accusatory.

Seungkwan looks away, frowning just slightly, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Whatever, I gave you all the details I had! Get back to work, slacker!”

“Is that any way for you to treat your elders?”

“You’re three years older than me! That’s nothing!”

Chuckling, Jeonghan gets to his feet. As he returns to his post behind the counter, he asks, “is there anything else you wanted? Or do you plan on using up our wifi until my shift’s over?”

Seungkwan hums. “Well…” he starts but trails off as he seems to remember something. “Well—you know I’m on a diet right now.”

Jeonghan shrugs. “Well,” he replies, “let me know if you change your mind. I can make some salt and pepper chicken—your favourite.”

When Seungkwan adopts a genuinely distressed look, Jeonghan decides to back off, laughing inwardly.

 

* * *

 

 

As far as airports go, Pearson is pretty nice. Junhui has flown a couple times for work but not to anywhere nearly as far as Canada. It’s basically on the other side of the world!

But a friend of a friend of his wanted him to model some winter outerwear and he couldn’t say no, especially not when the flight and lodgings were going to be covered. He had some money to do some cute touristy things, too, so he’d say it was a pretty good deal.

When he walks out of the gate, he immediately sees someone holding a sign with his name on it. Junhui’s English is pretty good if he says so himself, but he’s not ready to launch into it just yet. Relief, gratitude, and general good feelings wash over him as he sees a friendly face behind the sign written in his mother tongue.

“Junhui!” his friend greets him, approaching him.

“Minghao,” Junhui replies, and in a few steps, he’s closed the distance between them.

Minghao claps a hand to Junhui’s back before releasing him. “Welcome to Canada, land of the cold,” he says.

With a scoff, Junhui replies, “this is supposed to be cold? This is nothing!”

“Dude, it’s like, the beginning of December. Come back in late January and you’ll _really_ get it.”

They chatter back and forth as they head towards Junhui’s hotel shuttle. On the way, they pick up some coffee and Timbits.

“These are so cute!” Junhui comments. “This one’s supposed to taste like birthday cake?” he asks, holding up a piece covered in coloured dots.

Minghao shrugs. “I mean, that’s what it’s called,” he says, “but birthday cakes come in a variety of flavours, don’t they?”

“Whatever. It’s still cute.”

When he pops it into his mouth, it tastes mostly like sugar. He’s fine with it, though.

It’s already dark when they pull up to the hotel; at this time in December, it’s to be expected. But the lights in the lobby are bright as they enter, and the hustle and bustle inside is enough to remind Junhui that it is not, in fact, 10pm like the sky seems to say.

“BEYOND THE SCREEN: A YOUTUBER CONVENTION” reads a sign left of the reception desk. There are some arrows leading to conference rooms and an on-site bar and restaurant. Junhui casts curious glances as he approaches the front.

"Are you here for the convention?" the receptionist asks once he's within hearing range. "Registration is near the elevators."

Junhui shakes his head and finally sets his gaze firmly in front of him. "No, I have a room for the next week. But, if you don't mind my asking, what is this all about?"

The receptionist smiles a little bit. The lines around her mouth and eyes are tired, but her tone holds some fondness as she replies, "as the sign over there says, it's a YouTuber convention. This is only the second time it's been held here, but it's pretty lively."

Junhui nods. "Yeah, seems so," he says.

Someone enters the hotel from the doors behind him. As Junhui starts to relay the relevant information to the receptionist, footsteps approach the front desk. He figures it's another convention attendee, and the person is just about to pass the sign when they stop.

Junhui looks up, his attention straying as the receptionist pulls up his reservation information. The person by the door is a young man with bleached hair that falls just over his eyebrows, leaving his eyes in plain sight. These eyes are wide as they stare Junhui right in the face.

Naturally, Junhui feels inclined to address him—but his stare is hot, piercing, a laser mapping the topography of Junhui's features, and his words get caught in his throat.

"W-Wen Junhui," the man says. His voice is clear, minus the stutter, and that would make sense if he were one of the YouTubers attending the—

It hits Junhui then. He knows this man. Not personally, of course, but through a screen. And that's his life nowadays, really, making connections through various social networks—that's why it's called networking, he supposes.

Boo Seungkwan, the comedian behind one of his favourite YouTube channels. Junhui feels his palms grow hot and sweaty; heat climbs up the expanse of his neck.

What the hell is English and how the hell is he supposed to reply?

Seungkwan takes a few steps towards him. When Junhui doesn't respond in any sense of the word, Seungkwan breaks into a wavering bow, like he's not sure he remembers how and when to do it.

What'd they call Toronto? A cultural mosaic? From what Junhui remembers of Seungkwan's introductory videos, he's Korean, but he moved to Toronto when he was young. Even then, he supposes Seungkwan wouldn't know exactly where Chinese and Korean culture overlap—even Junhui doesn't know that. And on top of that, mannerisms vary regionally, and...

His mind is running away from him. Junhui holds out his hands and opens his mouth to speak, but just as he's about to say something to Seungkwan, the receptionist holds out his papers.

"I hope you have a good stay, Mr. Wen," she says, a pleasant smile on her face.

Junhui whips his head around. The sweat on his neck drips down his collar. He hopes it doesn't show as he takes his items and nods at her, still too shocked to get words out of the confines of his throat.

Another set of footsteps approaches him. It's his saviour in ripped jeans and a slouched beanie.

"Did you get your key?" Minghao asks, still in Chinese. When Junhui only nods mutely in reply, his brow furrows. "What? You look like you've seen—"

He turns. Seungkwan's eyes, still as wide as dinner plates, dart to Minghao, and then he's bowing again.

Minghao shakes his head, holding up his hands and waving them in a somewhat nervous gesture.

"Uh—" The corner of Minghao's lips turns upwards. "Sorry—do I know you?" he asks in uncertain English.

Junhui's first instinct is to elbow Minghao in the ribs as quickly as possible. Minghao nearly doubles over—but Seungkwan's startled into laughter, and Junhui is willing to face the consequences for his actions at a later time in exchange for such a lovely sound.

"This is—this is Seungkwan, you know—he's—" Junhui stammers in English. Then, at a loss, he gestures wildly at the convention sign.

Minghao turns his head to look at it. Silence falls between them as he connects the dots, broken only by the ambient noise of the hotel running beyond them. Time moves in a linear fashion, somehow.

"Oh," Minghao says. "Ohhhhh."

Then, he turns and grabs Junhui's luggage. "I'll just take these then," he says, unprompted. "You should grab dinner. You haven't had real food since you landed."

He takes a few steps towards the elevator before stopping. "Wait, gimme your key," he mutters in Chinese, stalking back to Junhui and holding his hands out. "Do you have money?" he adds in a low whisper. "I can spot you. In fact, consider it my treat for meeting your celebrity—"

"Don't finish that sentence," Junhui mumbles back. He presses his room key into Minghao's hands. "And yeah, I have money. Obviously."

"Still," Minghao offers. "In case you were planning on—I dunno, being gentlemanly and stuff."

Before Junhui can protest, Minghao slips him his wallet. In a flash, he's heading towards the elevator, luggage and all. "See you!" he calls over his shoulder, in English this time.

Junhui takes a deep breath before chancing a look at Seungkwan. He's still there, thankfully.

"Um," Seungkwan pipes up, taking a surreptitious step towards Junhui. "Hi. Nice to meet you. I'm Seungkwan, but it looks like you know me already."

A cheeky grin lights up Seungkwan's face and Junhui feels his insides melt a little. His smile is even brighter in person.

Goddammit, if he knew this was going to happen, Junhui would have practiced his English a little more.

"Um, Junhui," he offers in return. He does a weird nod-bow thing accompanied by a wave. "Nice to meet you, too."

Seungkwan takes another step, and then he's suddenly within arm's reach. Not that either of them make a move to touch each other, god no. But he's there and he's real. The whole situation is hard to believe.

Words bubble up in Junhui's chest before popping and collapsing down his throat. He fiddles with his hands a bit, at a loss.

"You're um, even more handsome in person," Seungkwan says, saving the day. Junhui really needs to stop digging holes for himself. "We have some iconic guests here, but I didn't think I'd see you here."

Junhui rubs the back of his neck. He's about two inches away from curling up into the collar of his turtleneck and staying there until he crumbles into dust.

"I'm not here for the convention," he replies, "unfortunately. Um, what exactly is happening here?"

When Seungkwan launches into a speech introducing the convention, it seems practiced yet full of gusto and charisma. It's Seungkwan's video voice; Junhui feels disproportionately starstruck.

"I just wrapped up my own panel about an hour ago," Seungkwan adds. "I was coming back to scope out any of the ending speeches, but. Like, like I said, I wasn't expecting to see you here at all."

"I had no idea this convention was happening at this hotel," Junhui says. "I just picked one close to the airport, so..."

Seungkwan nods. "Makes sense. I take it this is your first time here?" he asks.

Junhui nods vigorously. "Yes," he says. "I'm, um, doing a photoshoot for someone this week, and then I decided to take another week to look around the city since I've got a friend who lives in Toronto, he..."

Junhui makes a vague gesture towards the elevators. "Yeah," he finishes. "His name is Minghao. Also, um, sorry about... what happened earlier."

Seungkwan shakes his head. "It’s nothing! We all get tongue-tied sometimes." He grins again. "Anyway," he continues, "I'm famished. And if you haven't had dinner yet, and you're new here, I could show you some of the good eats in the area...?"

The way he trails off is such an obvious invite; Junhui feels like his hand is being held. Just a little. It's only fair, he hopes, since he's new here and all.

Then again, his mom has told him before that he has a face that you can't help but feel sorry for, sometimes. He prefers to think that his good looks are just that irresistible.

"That would be _so_ helpful," Junhui says, a sigh tapering his words at the end. "I trust that you know your way around, and, um... I trust your taste."

Junhui can't help it now: he feels a blush rise to his cheeks. He can't blame the cold for this one.

"You... Your food reviews. I like them a lot. They're—" He takes a deep breath. "They're cute."

"Oh," Seungkwan says. He sounds a little breathless; Junhui hopes what he said wasn't weird. "I'm really flattered."

That sounds like a good sign? Junhui nods and hopes the gesture communicates his sincerity clearly enough.

Seungkwan beams up at him. "There are a couple places in walking distance, if you don't mind walking," he tells Junhui. "I know of a really fancy steakhouse, actually. Never been myself—it's expensive, though I heard it's good to go during Winterlicious.”

Junhui nods despite having no idea what Seungkwan is talking about. It takes a few seconds for Seungkwan to catch himself, and then he gives Junhui an appreciative look.

"Anyway. Maybe another time. You down to walk?"

Junhui nods again and prays that his muteness isn't a turnoff; maybe he'll be able to channel the Little Mermaid and get Seungkwan to fall in love with him before their night is over.

 

* * *

 

Enter week one of finals season. There’s a musty smell in the study room now and the trash cans are starting to overflow. That last part isn’t much of an issue, though: the custodians are due in about two hours, if Jihoon’s memory serves him right.

The score between him and Seungcheol is at 4-5, Jihoon. This is his chance to take the lead; they’ve been head to head for the past nine days. Humans are creatures of habit and this little game of theirs certainly shows it: nights when they’ve had morning classes the next day have proven to be their weakness, and Seungcheol has been clocking out early as a result.

This time, Jihoon came well-equipped with food, water, and a variety of canned beverages. He came into the room with bubble tea hand-delivered to him by Jeonghan, but it’s long gone now. At this point, he thinks he’s probably on his third canned coffee. The packaging is just so cute, he had to drink them first.

They don’t always sit in the same place. Sometimes they end up close to each other; sometimes they end up on opposite sides of the room. The shifting landscape of students and the constant rotation of chairs provides plenty of variety.

Tonight, they’re opposite to each other. The study room is filled with arrangements of cubicles with power bars on top. The two of them sit across each other, feet barely touching under the cubicles..

Seungcheol opens up a tupperware container. The scent of carrots wafts towards Jihoon, followed by crunching.

At least Seungcheol has one healthy thing in this trainwreck of a lifestyle. It’s only temporary, yes, but it’s never pleasant; maybe Jihoon worries a little.

It’s a distraction from taking care of himself, at least.

The next hour passes in a blur. Jihoon is on his third pack of index cards and his hand is covered in black ink smudges. He’s been trying his best to keep his face clean tonight, but…

As the thought passes through his head, he chances a glance at Seungcheol. He focuses his mind power on Seungcheol in hopes of catching his attention. It works after a little while—though Jihoon wouldn’t exactly trust his perception of time at this point.

Seungcheol looks up. His eyelashes are so, so long, curved prettily towards his brow. Somehow, despite the sunken skin around his eyes, his gaze is still so striking.

This caffeine overload surely isn’t helping Jihoon’s heart.

Seungcheol’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he discovers the ink that must be on Jihoon’s face. He looks down, pretending that he hadn’t seen anything, but when Jihoon’s eyes stay on his face, it doesn’t take long for him to look up again.

He taps the side of his chin. With a sigh, Jihoon licks his thumb and scrubs at his face. A look of disgust contorts Seungcheol’s amused expression, but it doesn’t last long.

Again, the rhythm of studying consumes them. It is an oppressive thing, with anxiety of the future at the helm and the strict, rigid evaluation system acting as a whip. With Jihoon in his third year and Seungcheol in his fourth, they’re used to this; it is as grueling as ever.

But their little game is an outlet of tension; steam escapes their hunched bodies little by little as students leave the room and open up the space to accommodate the release of warm air. Jihoon feels himself unfurling—he’s preparing his body for the long haul.

Really, he’s not sure what happens in these final hours, the wee hours of the morning, small in number but so grand in length. Sure, he’s still trying to absorb the material spread out in front of him, but these nights have been a convoluted journey to rediscovering his old friend.

He learns so much about Seungcheol just by sharing space with him in this unexpectedly intimate way. Although their circumstances are a skewed sample of Seungcheol’s lifestyle, it’s enough to piece together a new image of him. It’s enough to spark curiosity in Jihoon—maybe it had never left in the first place.

Maybe this is all just a fanciful thought his brain reaches for in the haze of school stress. Nostalgia—if he can even call it that—always has that irresistible appeal, especially in times like these where all he wants is some relief.

Eventually, the room is completely empty save the two of them. Jihoon can hear Seungcheol’s breathing; it vibrates through his chest like it were his own.

It’s a little weird. But these past few nights, Jihoon has learned to appreciate the unique flavour of it all.

Seungcheol still cycles through hats on a daily basis, like he can’t bear to let one gather dust despite the season. He still refuses to apply chapstick even in the dry, cold weather. He still wears those timbs, but at least he’s learned to coordinate his outfits better.

It’s kind of annoying to think about the ways Seungcheol has changed: there have been many improvements, and Jihoon hates to think that Seungcheol has really outgrown him or something.

His sense of style is one thing; he’s also a tiny bit taller. Some last minute growing, not that Jihoon would know the feeling. He’s also lost a lot of baby fat; his cheekbones, jaw, and chin are fatally sharp now.

He’s also making Jihoon wax poetic, though that isn’t exactly new either. Jihoon can remember a time in his teen years where he’d written a lot of angsty poetry. He’s not particularly proud of that.

Plastic creaks and Jihoon smells carrots again. This time, however, the box ends up balanced where their two cubicles meet at the top.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. Seconds pass and Jihoon stares up at the box of baby carrots.

When he finally takes one, Seungcheol shifts in his seat. Jihoon isn’t sure how he understands this, but the air around Seungcheol seems… pleased. Jihoon’s probably just making it up.

Minutes pass. Jihoon’s brain is a haze of flashcards, hand cramps, and the peculiar mix of carrots and energy drinks clouding his palate. He feels oddly awake for 4:11 a.m., and not just as a result of habit. He feels hyper-aware of the shape of his tongue in his mouth.

Snuffling distracts Jihoon from the weight of the muscle against his teeth, followed by choppy breathing. It sounds suspiciously like snoring.

Jihoon peers over the top of his cubicle, but he can’t see anything aside from the brim of Seungcheol’s cap. He gets to his feet and winces when the sound of his chair moving takes a hammer to the walls of silence that had built up around them.

Still, it’s not enough to rouse Seungcheol—if he really is sleeping, that is.

On his toes, Jihoon can see farther over the top of the cubicles. Just under the brim of Seungcheol’s hat, Jihoon can see his nose twitch. His lips are slightly parted, letting soft snores escape.

Does this count as a win?

Jihoon laughs a little to himself. Well, he will consider it a victory for now. But maybe it is time to pack up.

He shuffles his flashcards into place and disposes his food and drink paraphernalia. He tucks everything away where it belongs, taking extra care to be quiet. In the background, Seungcheol continues to sleep away.

Once he’s got his coat and backpack on, Jihoon approaches Seungcheol and stops behind his chair. This is the first time he has come this close to Seungcheol of his own volition. There have been a couple of instances where one of them had been particularly close to a garbage can, but this is different.

Like a pilgrim coming to the foot of a holy symbol, Jihoon takes measured steps, his breath caught in his throat. The silence filling up the room laps against his jaw, a warning sign, a barrier he wades through with caution.

“Hyung,” Jihoon says quietly. The syllable barely tips out of his mouth; it sounds foreign, as if he were hearing it from someone else’s lips, as if it were someone else’s mother tongue. Growing up, their culture was something they shared, delighted in, and it feels strange to lean on those ties once again.

Nothing. Seungcheol moves ever so slightly, searching for a more comfortable position.

Jihoon sighs and feels the room shift with the weight of his breath.

It takes inexplicable courage for him to place a hand on Seungcheol’s shoulder, but maybe it’s the lack of sleep; maybe it’s the vulnerability in Seungcheol’s sleeping form; so many maybes to consider, and Jihoon moves forward nonetheless.

Again, the atmosphere shifts even under the slightest duress, and Jihoon feels his gravity adjust to Seungcheol as he rouses.

Seungcheol’s eyelashes flutter, and it’s a little pitiful how hard he tries to keep his eyes open once movement returns to his limbs. Still, he’s damningly handsome in the artificial light of the study room, and Jihoon feels—privileged, somehow, to see this display.

“Hey,” Seungcheol croaks. He blinks some more. His eyes are still slits aimed in Jihoon’s general direction despite his efforts. “What’s up?”

Jihoon snorts. “You fell asleep,” Jihoon replies simply. “Obviously, this means I win tonight.”

Slowly, Seungcheol sits up and braces his weight against the cubicle. “What do you mean ‘win’? Since when were we playing a game?” he asks.

“Since the last few weeks,” Jihoon says as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Well, it was to him—and now his expression falters. “You know—the past few days, staying up to study in here… That whole deal.”

A few seconds of quiet pass. Then, Seungcheol lifts a finger and points it in Jihoon’s face.

“Man, your fucking face,” he wheezes, somewhere between a laugh and actual words.

Jihoon sputters and feels his brain shut down as it tries to piece together a comprehensible rebuttal.

Seungcheol stands and cuffs the brim of Jihoon’s cap just slightly. Scowling up at him, Jihoon says nothing.

“No, you’re right. This is a win for you,” Seungcheol says. He turns to his cubicle and starts to put his things in order—that is, he throws his papers into a vague pile before tossing them into his backpack.

Something in Jihoon gathers enough energy to vibrate with joy. It’s little movement, but it’s something, and he feels warm.

“Listen,” Seungcheol continues, “I’ve got two exams back to back tomorrow, and then I’ll be done. I’m gonna be sleeping as soon as I’m done, but if you’re free afterwards, I was wondering…”

He trails off. Jihoon leans forward, his gravity always accommodating Seungcheol’s commanding weight.

Seungcheol yawns before continuing, “excuse me. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like celebratory drinks or something? For winning our little game.”

The warmth in Jihoon’s body blows up and rises to his face where it pops like a balloon, leaving colour in his cheeks.

“Uh—” Jihoon replies. “Uh, I, uhhh—”

Seungcheol takes this time to pull on his coat and tuck his chair back into his cubicle.

“You’re allowed to say no, you know,” Seungcheol tells him gently.

Jihoon shakes his head and feels the world wobble on its axis. “No,” he replies, and then he almost bites his tongue in his haste to correct himself. “I mean—I—”

The grin that breaks out on Seungcheol’s face is bright and slightly chapped.

“That’s a yes, then?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon nods. Another dangerous move considering his lack of sleep.

Seungcheol claps a hand over one of Jihoon’s shoulders.

“Cool,” he says. “I’ll message you on Facebook or something to make sure you’re still alive, then we can meet somewhere.”

“As long as it’s not the Blind Duck,” Jihoon says.

A real laugh bubbles out of Seungcheol’s throat. “Deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized i didn't put this as incomplete when i first uploaded it dsjlafnlf i'm sorry


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